Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 136.djvu/811

 I

What prescience in the realms of dusk draws back The Wanderers to their homeless depths of sky? It is the dawn; through the long leafy track Her young wings winnow by. Fringed in the reedy shallows of a pond He sees the last star swimming white and cold Where measureless deeps of cloud unfold Beneath a trembling frond. ‘Does not Illusion give to cloud and crag The depths that make still waters yet more deep? The farthest star beneath the iris flag Swims where the ripples purse The pool’s cold lips,’ he cried, ‘as if in sleep. This is the universe.’

THEODORE MORRISON

Gougle